{"id":819,"date":"2016-01-09T19:49:55","date_gmt":"2016-01-09T19:49:55","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/?page_id=819"},"modified":"2018-01-07T15:40:02","modified_gmt":"2018-01-07T15:40:02","slug":"what-goes-around-comes-around","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/?page_id=819","title":{"rendered":"What Goes Around, Comes Around"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Chamber<\/a>This was a short story which I wrote to support the charity associated with the\u00a0Chamber of Music<\/a>\u00a0publication. I haven’t written many short stories but this is one of which I’m rather proud.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

What Goes Around, Comes Around<\/strong><\/p>\n

Face pressed hard against the cold glass, I strain my eyes and squint to get a better look. My nose, squashed and misshapen, makes me look like a kid ogling sweets through a sweetie shop window, but I don\u2019t care. Rhythmic palls of visible breath puff from my mouth and steam up the glass. Wiping away the condensation with the back of my glove doesn’t improve the distorted view of the shop\u2019s display.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s beautiful, Ryan,\u201d I say, nudging him in the ribs with my elbow.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, Max, it\u2019s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.\u201d Does he mean it or does he just want me to stop poking him? When he says \u2018look at the glorious shine on the wood\u2019, I know he really means it.<\/p>\n

What am I doing here, you may ask? Answer: the voice in my head brought me. Seriously, there is a voice which lives in my head. Not a malevolent voice, you understand, more of a guiding voice which helps me make important decisions. Mind you, my life would be better if my voice was smarter, because it\u2019s guided me down some pretty stupid paths. Today it\u2019s led me here, to the pawnshop.<\/p>\n

You could own that violin,<\/em> says my voice, if only you\u00a0weren’t\u00a0such a loser<\/em>.<\/p>\n

A confusing mixture of depression and joy washes over me. What\u2019s this all about? I’ve never been in the least bit interested in making music, yet here I am, gazing in adoration at an expensive wooden fiddle. And my best friend\u2019s been dragged along for the ride. Ryan\u2019s younger than me, but only by a few weeks. People often ask if we\u2019re twins. I guess we do look a lot alike with our long black hair, swarthy skin and dark brown eyes.<\/p>\n

So here we stand, two eighteen-year-old lads gawking at, according to the little sign, an 1881 Charles Boullangier Fine Violin. A masterpiece of craftsmanship, the instrument\u2019s beautiful curves stir memories of the voluptuous women who haunt my dreams; the sleek, black neck demands to be caressed, while the wood\u2019s shimmering gleam gives the impression the thing\u2019s alive. My eyes refuse to let go. I’m mesmerised.<\/p>\n

Nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds, proclaims the price tag dangling from the instrument\u2019s neck. It might as well be nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand<\/em> pounds, because I\u2019ve never had anything like the amount of money needed to buy something like this. Right now, a grand total of four pounds and eighty-five pence jingles in my pocket.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on,\u201d says Ryan. \u201cLet\u2019s go see what\u2019s happening in the park.\u201d<\/p>\n

I peel my face off the window and wipe away a dribble from the corner of my mouth.<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t walk away now,<\/em> teases my voice. Why do you always give up so easily<\/em>?<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy don\u2019t we buy it?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou said it was the most beautiful thing you\u2019d ever seen, so why don\u2019t we buy it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause it\u2019s nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds \u2026 duh.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know, but we could work odd jobs, we could beg, borrow and maybe even steal a little. We only need to raise four hundred and fifty quid each,\u201d I say, believing a rounded-down price said quickly won\u2019t sound so daunting.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the daftest thing you’ve ever come up with. Even if we were able to raise the money \u2013 five hundred pounds each, by the way \u2013 what do we know about music? What do we know about playing the violin?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cListen, don\u2019t make fun of me, but something weird is happening here, mate,\u201d I say. \u201cSomething is drawing me to this instrument; something I can\u2019t ignore. Anyway, we could learn to play. Look, there\u2019s a book about learning to play\u2026 there, beside the violin.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, for another twenty quid. Why don\u2019t we just buy lessons? I’m sure there\u2019s someone out there who\u2019d teach us for a grand or two.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t explain, Ryan, but I feel a strange\u2026 ahmmm, force working on me,\u201d I say. \u201cIt\u2019s as if the fates are telling me this instrument is going to become an important part of my life – an important part of our<\/em> lives.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ryan\u2019s a sceptic who believes you make your own luck. He poo-poos the idea of greater forces being out there; forces which can help us on our journeys. He might be right. No force has been much help to me so far, and that includes my inner voice. Failure has been the story of my life: school, relationships, finding a job\u2026 I’ve failed at all of them. And I’ve been in trouble with the cops, just minor stuff like shoplifting, but it all adds to my parents\u2019 disappointment. All they want is for me to earn some money and help the family climb out of the poverty trap we\u2019re wallowing in. Of course, I should have a job by now. Of course, I should be contributing, but here I am walking the streets thinking about spending a thousand quid on a pipe dream. What the hell is wrong with me?<\/p>\n

Before I drown in my own self-pity, Ryan derails my train of thought.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe fates? You\u2019re talking about the voices in your head, aren’t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s nothing wrong with listening to your inner voice. It\u2019s like your conscience or\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOr a medical condition,\u201d says Ryan.<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2026 or my guardian angel or, yes, the fates,\u201d I say, ignoring Ryan.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, and the \u2018fates\u2019 pointed you towards professional football.\u201d Ryan makes air bunnies when he says \u2018fates\u2019 just to emphasise his contempt for the concept. \u201cThat didn’t end well, did it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOnly a broken leg stopped me. I used to be pretty good, so if it hadn’t been for the injury, who knows?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, and you can thank the \u2018fates\u2019 for that freak accident, eh?\u201d Ryan makes air bunnies again.<\/p>\n

BANG! We both jump and then drop into a crouch. My heart thumps in my chest as I scan the darkness. Drive-by shootings aren’t unknown in this area, but that wasn’t a gunshot. Tiny shards of glass tinkle to the ground, telling us that one of the light bulbs which had illuminated the sign above the pawnshop window has exploded. We both laugh nervously, a little embarrassed by our initial, rather ridiculous, reaction.<\/p>\n

\u201cI suppose that was a sign from \u2018fate\u2019,\u201d says Ryan giving his air bunnies another outing. These bunnies are breeding like, well, rabbits.<\/p>\n

\u201cEven you\u2019re half-thinking it was, aren’t you?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, but just to shut you up, I\u2019ll tell you what we\u2019ll do. Why don\u2019t we get the money together and buy the book? Let\u2019s see how we feel then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI love you, mate.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSteady, tiger,\u201d he says as we walk off towards the park.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

In only two days, we manage to gather twenty pounds.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe want to buy the violin book in the window.\u201d<\/p>\n

The pawnbroker\u2019s left hand fidgets with his collar while he eyes us up and down. Given the way we\u2019re dressed, baggy jeans and matching hoodies, he probably reckons we\u2019re here to rob him rather than buy a book on violins.<\/p>\n

\u201cOne of you get out,\u201d he says, concealing his right hand under the counter. Has he got a gun there? \u201cOne of you, out now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ryan backs out of the shop. An ominous, dull, metallic thunk tells me the door\u2019s locked behind him. I guess I\u2019m trapped. The pawnbroker removes a brass padlock from the grill which divides the shop from the window display and reaches in for the book. My eyes are pulled to the violin.<\/p>\n

Touch it, <\/em>niggles my voice. You need to touch it, loser.<\/em><\/p>\n

I reach out. The urge to hold the violin is irresistible.<\/p>\n

WHAM! The pawnbroker smashes a baseball bat hard against the grill. Where the hell did the bat come from? Has this guy got weapons hidden all over the shop?<\/p>\n

\u201cNo touching,\u201d he says slamming the grill closed. \u201cNow do you want this\u2026?\u201d He squints at the title. \u201cThe Unknown Secrets of Violin Playing?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYep.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is for professionals,\u201d he says, reading the inside cover of the book. \u201cListen: \u2018Full instructions and hints for professional violin players who want to achieve perfect mastery of the instrument.\u2019 Is this really what you want?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYep,\u201d I say, dropping twenty pound coins on the counter. \u201cMe and my mate are both brilliant players, but we want to get even better\u2026 become professionals.\u201d<\/p>\n

He scoops up the money and slides the book over to me.<\/p>\n

\u201cPeople usually negotiate. I\u2019d have taken fifteen quid, but you\u2019re too late now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Waster. Five pounds wasted. Might as well have flushed it down the toilet.<\/em> Why the hell can\u2019t my inner voice be on my side?<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t care,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019ve more important things to worry about.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMore important than money?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, more important than five quid, that\u2019s for sure. We\u2019re saving up for the violin.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe violin in the window? Ha! Where would you get that sort of money?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you worry about that, just tell me how much you\u2019d take for it?\u201d Negotiation lesson learnt.<\/p>\n

\u201cNine hundred and ninety-nine pounds and not a penny less,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou said people usually negotiate.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSome things are non-negotiable.\u201d<\/p>\n

Negotiation lesson learnt, eh? You\u00a0couldn’t\u00a0even negotiate five quid off the violin.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d I say, ignoring the voice in my head. \u201cBut how about you keep the violin under the counter until we gather the money?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t. If someone offers the price, then it\u2019s gone. Business is business, son.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat if we give you the money as we get it, would you keep it then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo can do, but I\u2019ll tell you what, I won\u2019t sell it for less than nine hundred and ninety-nine. Can\u2019t say fairer than that.\u201d<\/p>\n

He\u2019s not going to move on the issue, so I leave.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you get the book?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYep,\u201d I say, not mentioning that I could’ve got it five quid cheaper.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat have you got there?\u201d demands Ryan\u2019s mother as we sneak up the stairs in his house. An interrogation always follows Ryan\u2019s outings with me. I guess she\u2019s trying to make sure he isn\u2019t getting himself in trouble. \u201cThe Unknown Secrets of Violin Playing? Let me see.\u201d<\/p>\n

She skim reads the first page and hands the book back to me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re kidding, aren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Ryan says. \u201cWe\u2019re going to be violin impressionists. You just wait.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cImpresarios,\u201d I whisper in his ear while he leads the way to his room. My vocabulary was always better than his. I\u2019d often thought the clever use of words might be my hidden talent – very well hidden some might say. Or is music going to be my thing? We\u2019ll soon see.<\/p>\n

Maybe you don\u2019t have a hidden talent, did you even think of that?<\/em><\/p>\n

Kneeling on the floor, we lay the book on the unmade bed. There\u2019s a note on the title page, handwritten by the author. \u2018Study well, my friend, embrace the joy of music, Ernst Meyer, 2 June 1847.\u2019 A message from fate?<\/p>\n

\u201cEighteen forty-seven?\u201d says Ryan. \u201cWe couldn\u2019t even afford an up-to-date book.\u201d<\/p>\n

The language is old-fashioned, or, to put it bluntly, it\u2019s boring. We skip pages. We skip chapters. There\u2019s no inspiration, no excitement, no enlightenment, all I\u2019m getting are bone dry sentences\u2026 until the pictures in chapter twelve.<\/p>\n

Chapter 12 – Variations of the Position of the Left Hand (Illustrated). Wow, and I mean WOW! The beautiful etchings demonstrate \u2018The Normal Position\u2019, \u2018The Firm Position\u2019, \u2018The Free Position\u2019 and \u2018The Anticipating Position\u2019. Wonderful. A few pages on, a diagram teaches me how to stretch my thumb – apparently, the most important exercise ever created for violinists. While I lose myself in the exercise, Ryan pulls the book away from me.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis stuff\u2019s boring,\u201d he says. \u201cLet\u2019s move on.\u201d<\/p>\n

He flicks over pages. Every so often, I slap my palm on the book to stop him skipping past illustrations of the skills of the left hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhoa. Look at these pictures, they\u2019re so beautiful,\u201d I say, trying to get him as excited as I am.<\/p>\n

Maybe I\u2019m fascinated because I\u2019m naturally left-handed. Ryan\u2019s the opposite and seems drawn to pictures which illustrate the right hand. His favourite chapter is \u2018The Management of the Bow\u2019. It proclaims the bow provides the soul of the instrument and describes the perfect position of the elbow, the wrist, the thumb. Now, that stuff is<\/em> boring.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll tell you what,\u201d I say. \u201cWhy don\u2019t I pull out the pages to do with the left hand? I\u2019ll take them away and learn them. You concentrate on the right hand. Then we\u2019ll swap pages.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood idea,\u201d he says, and we set about the task of dividing up the book.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

In between working our butts off to get money, we study; although our excitement levels do drop when we \u2018swap hands\u2019. I just can\u2019t muster up the same enthusiasm for the bowing nonsense and Ryan feels the same way about fingering.<\/p>\n

Whittled sticks and carved scraps of wood give us everything we need to practise. My makeshift violin neck allows my fingers to perform every one of the recommended exercises while Ryan\u2019s stick bow gives him something to wave about. Harsh, but fair, I think.<\/p>\n

We practise, we earn, we study, we learn, and then we practise some more. My hard work is paying off. You wouldn\u2019t believe the speed and deftness of my fingers as I let them run free up and down my makeshift violin neck. And to be fair, Ryan looks like a professional when he wields his \u2018bow\u2019.<\/p>\n

Days pass into weeks, weeks into months. I\u2019m exhausted, but my savings are accumulating into something worthwhile.<\/p>\n

You\u2019ll never make it. You\u2019ll mess up before you have enough money.<\/em><\/p>\n

My ringtone interrupts my third money count of the night and shuts up my stupid inner voice as well, thank God.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, Ryan, what\u2019s up?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo easy way to say this, mate, so I\u2019ll just tell you straight. My dad took all the money.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Bile rises in my throat, my breathing stops.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe found my money\u2026 says it\u2019s about time I contributed to the house. Took the lot\u2026 took the whole two hundred and ninety pounds.\u201d<\/p>\n

The air bursts from my lungs as if I\u2019ve been punched in the stomach.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

My breathing is erratic, but at least I am<\/em> breathing again. I can\u2019t hear Ryan any more, the only voice I can hear now is my inner voice screaming abuse at me.<\/p>\n

You\u2019ve messed up again. Why can\u2019t you do anything right?<\/em><\/p>\n

I suck in lungfuls of air and slap the side of my head with my hand. Calm down, calm down. As if in the distance, I can hear Ryan talking. I need to concentrate on his voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s all gone, mate, and there\u2019s nothing I can do about it.\u201d<\/p>\n

The next day we meet up and decide that from now on, I\u2019ll keep the money we earn. I\u2019d cried myself to sleep the night before, but I\u2019m not about to share that. Way too girly.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re sitting on a bench in the park discussing how we can rekindle our enthusiasm and start earning money again.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt least we haven\u2019t lost my three hundred and forty quid,\u201d I say, putting on a brave face.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s when the miracle happens. It\u2019s as if Lady Luck is smiling on us, or fate has decided we need a break. Ryan spots it first; a ten-pound note fluttering across the grass. As he chases it, I see another one, bobbing and ducking and diving in the wind. Ryan\u2019s caught his and is holding it above his head, like a world champion showing off his trophy. I trap mine. More notes flutter past. In a couple of minutes we\u2019ve gathered three hundred and ninety pounds, that\u2019s more than what Ryan\u2019s nightmare of a father stole. Happy days are here again.<\/p>\n

Happy days are here again, <\/em>echoes my inner voice. But not for long, I\u2019ll bet<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Where did the money come from? We’ve no idea. There\u2019s no one about, at least not until a youngster, maybe twelve, scoots round the corner on a skateboard. The handful of notes clasped in his hand attracts my attention. I grab him as he passes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019d you get the money, kid?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNone of your business,\u201d he says, struggling to free himself.<\/p>\n

I slap him hard in the face. What the hell has come over me? A strange red mist has descended and is clouding my judgement. I really am seeing a red mist.<\/p>\n

Hit him again,<\/em> orders my voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cLast chance, dirtball, where\u2019d you get the money?\u201d<\/p>\n

The boy\u2019s crying. Another slap makes him cry harder. Ryan grabs my wrist, before I can give the child another whack.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt just blew past me,\u201d snivels the boy.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s mine,\u201d I say prising the money out of his fingers. \u201cNow, bog off.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hit him a wallop on the back of the head for good measure as he speeds off on his board.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat was a bit harsh,\u201d says Ryan. \u201cYou\u2019re the \u2018what goes around, comes around\u2019 guy. You\u2019re messing with Karma. You\u2019re asking for trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe,\u201d I say as I count the kid\u2019s money. \u201cWhoa! Wait \u2018til you hear this. When you add all the money together, guess what you get?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA karma knuckle sandwich?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. When you add the three hundred and forty I\u2019d saved to the three hundred and ninety which was blowin\u2019 in the wind, we\u2019ve seven hundred and thirty pounds. The kid had two hundred and seventy, which means\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich means we\u2019ve got a thousand pounds,\u201d interrupts Ryan.<\/p>\n

\u201cYep, we\u2019ve got exactly a thousand pounds. Is that fate or what? Come on, mate, we\u2019re going to the pawnshop to get our violin.\u201d<\/p>\n

We race, bumping and half-tripping each other as we go.<\/p>\n

Go, Max, beat him, <\/em>screams my voice. Don\u2019t let him win<\/em>.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s the shop and I\u2019m ahead. Before I crash through the door, something in the window catches my eye, or rather, something not<\/em> in the window catches my eye. There\u2019s a space where the violin had been for the last four months. The beautiful instrument is gone.<\/p>\n

I burst into the pawnshop.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s the violin?\u201d I scream before I see an old man lifting the instrument out of its case – lifting my<\/em> instrument out of its case.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s my violin,\u201d I yell, piling our collection of notes onto the counter. \u201cHere\u2019s the money.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is beautiful,\u201d says the old man, ignoring us. \u201cI\u2019ll take it. Can I pay by credit card?\u201d<\/p>\n

The pawnbroker eyes our money on the counter.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I\u2019d rather have cash,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo problem,\u201d says the old man pulling out his wallet and counting out a bunch of crisp, clean fifties which he sets beside our pile of crumpled notes.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I shout, \u201cIt\u2019s not fair. You know we\u2019ve been saving for this for months.\u201d<\/p>\n

Kill the old fool<\/em>, screams my voice. Kill him.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cHere,\u201d says the man to the pawnbroker. \u201cHere\u2019s an extra three hundred. That makes one thousand, three hundred and that\u2019s my offer.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ryan roots around in his pocket. \u201cAnd here\u2019s another two pounds sixty to add to our thousand.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot enough,\u201d says the old man as he starts to pack the violin back into its case.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot so fast,\u201d says the pawnbroker. \u201cThe price is a thousand pounds and you\u2019re both offering that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe had the money on the counter first,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, but I have the violin,\u201d says the man. \u201cI was about to buy it when you burst in and interrupted the deal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll tell you what,\u201d says the pawnbroker. \u201cWhoever can play it better can have it. That\u2019s fair, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n

He winks at me. Is he remembering my story about being a magnificent musician, a near-professional musician? Does he think he\u2019s giving me a clear run to the winning post?<\/p>\n

You\u2019re in big trouble now. Your stupidity\u2019s caught up with you again<\/em>.<\/p>\n

My damned voice is right. I mean, I\u2019ve never played a violin in my life. I\u2019ve read the book and practised with my whittled sticks, but I haven\u2019t so much as held a real instrument, never mind made music with one.<\/p>\n

My body freezes, inside and out, as if a giant ice block has formed in my chest and the coldness is permeating through my very being. My heart slows to a near standstill, frozen by the cold at my core. Everything has slowed, except my breathing, which is now coming so quick, it\u2019s making my head light as a helium balloon. Am I going to faint?<\/p>\n

Fainting, that\u2019s all we need. That\u2019ll be the final straw in the idiotic scarecrow which is you<\/em>.<\/p>\n

While I try and get my breathing back to normal, Ryan argues some more about the unfairness of not selling us the violin, but after a bit of name-calling and finger-pointing, the pawnbroker insists that a music contest will decide the ownership issue.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet the games, or rather the concert, begin,\u201d he says as he settles his elbows on the counter and lights a cigarette.<\/p>\n

The old man goes first – after all, he has the violin. An intricate warm-up routine precedes an even more elaborate stretching session. This guy knows what he\u2019s doing.<\/p>\n

The bowing begins. He\u2019s good. My God, to be honest, he\u2019s great. I\u2019ve never heard anything like it. Of course, truth be told, I\u2019ve never heard a violin before. The old man bows and plucks and sways as his magnificent music fills the shop. Ryan and I actually clap when he finishes. We can\u2019t help ourselves.<\/p>\n

What the hell are you doing? You should be booing<\/em>.<\/p>\n

The pawnbroker sits rock-still, as if he can\u2019t believe what he\u2019s heard.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy God, that was wonderful. I\u2019ve never heard such sweet music.\u201d His voice is shaky as he speaks. He\u2019s been moved and moved good. \u201cYour turn, boys, which one of you is going to play for your team?\u201d<\/p>\n

We exchange looks. How could either of us compete with what we\u2019ve just heard? Why not concede defeat, before either of us has to suffer the humiliation of playing our virgin performance in front of this virtuoso?<\/p>\n

Let it go, loser. You\u2019ve failed again<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Before I can agree with the voice in my head, Ryan steps in.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll play,\u201d he says. \u201cGive me the violin.\u201d<\/p>\n

He tenses. He stretches. He flexes. He draws back the bow and starts to play. A melancholic melody fills the air. The sound is haunting, but it\u2019s heartless because his fingering isn\u2019t up to scratch. It\u2019s brilliant for someone who\u2019s never touched a violin before, but it\u2019s a pale reflection of the music which the old man has just treated us to.<\/p>\n

I reach across, placing my hand on his; his fingering hand. Everything stops; the fingering, the bow, the music. The instrument stays under his chin while I gently take his fingers off the neck and replace them with mine.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet me finger while you bow,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

The sound is so exquisite, so uplifting, so perfect; I can\u2019t believe what I\u2019m hearing. Have angels descended from heaven with their harps?<\/p>\n

This is the most fabulous music I\u2019ve ever heard<\/em>. My God, even my inner voice is moved. Unshed tears fill my eyes.<\/p>\n

The pawnbroker is sobbing. So is the old man. Inspired, we take our music to an even higher level. My fingers dance up and down the neck of the instrument. Ryan bows like a man who\u2019s been playing for a century. Here\u2019s heart, here\u2019s soul, here\u2019s passion\u2026 even the devil himself couldn\u2019t compete with this.<\/p>\n

\u201cTake the violin,\u201d says the old man before we finish. \u201cYou deserve it.\u201d He wipes tears from his face as he hands me his business card and leaves. \u201cCall me. And by the way, that violin is worth at least three times what you\u2019re paying for it.\u201d<\/p>\n

I finger the card. It reads \u2018Menuhin Foundation\u2019 and gives a phone number. It means nothing to me, so I stick it in my pocket.<\/p>\n

Take the violin now, you\u2019ve earned it,<\/em> orders my voice.<\/p>\n

Grabbing the neck of the violin, I try to wrest it from Ryan\u2019s grip. It\u2019s my turn for a solo. He\u2019s had his go and failed.<\/p>\n

He resists. \u201cWhat the hell are you doing? Let go,\u201d he shouts and tugs back.<\/p>\n

Yanking harder, using both hands, I try to wrestle the instrument from his grip.<\/p>\n

Punch him, punch him. This is your violin<\/em>, shouts my voice.<\/p>\n

I tug harder while Ryan swipes at my hands with the bow. I pull with all my strength, trying to wrench the violin from his grasp.<\/p>\n

\u201cBoys, boys,\u201d screams the pawnbroker, but we\u2019re not listening. Neither of us is going to give up our hold on the sweet, sweet violin.<\/p>\n

The cracking sound startles me. The parting of the neck from the body surprises me even more. I stumble backwards still grasping the neck although now it\u2019s only connected to the violin’s body by the strings. Ryan\u2019s lost his balance too; he trips and tumbles to the floor. His shoulder lands on the body of the violin, crushing it. The bow\u2019s also trapped under his bodyweight. A loud splintering sound tells me it\u2019s gone the same way as the violin’s body, both smashed. The pair of us stop pulling. What\u2019s the point now?<\/p>\n

I offer Ryan my hand and help him up. Our crazy violence seems to have departed as quickly as it arrived. Maybe destroying the violin has brought us back to our senses.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, mate.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMe too.\u201d<\/p>\n

We hug. We are best friends, after all.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t believe you bloody idiots did that. You\u2019ve trashed an amazing violin,\u201d says the pawnbroker as he scoops our money off the counter. \u201cCorrection, you\u2019ve trashed your<\/em> amazing violin.\u201d<\/p>\n

We don\u2019t even try and argue. The violin is<\/em> ours and we wrecked it without anyone\u2019s help. A thousand pounds\u2019 worth of craftsmanship, destroyed in a moment of madness.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut Lady Luck is smiling on you,\u201d adds the pawnbroker.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s spitting in our faces, more like,\u201d I say. \u201cI mean, where the hell is the luck? We\u2019ve just smashed a thousand pound violin.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell,\u201d says the pawnbroker, \u201ca few weeks ago, I found out that the book you bought is actually a valuable antique. I should have spotted its value. The fact that it was signed by the author should\u2019ve given me a clue. Anyway, I can offer you twelve hundred quid for it, so you guys are going to come out ahead, despite your stupidity. Lady Luck\u2019s smiling or what?\u201d<\/p>\n

I think back on our decision to divide the book into sections covering left and right hands. Dammit. Dammit all to hell.<\/p>\n

Idiot. Only you could mess up such a stroke of luck. Only you could be such a total loser in this situation. Only you, pal, only you.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cNo thanks,\u201d I say, trying to ignore my voice. \u201cI think we\u2019ll hold on to the book.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you negotiating, son?\u201d<\/p>\n

This is the last straw. This is the \u2018light the blue touch paper and retreat a safe distance\u2019 moment. I explode. Everything around me is a target, I lash out at the shop counter and the grill which protects the window display. I swing a left and right hook at Ryan. I stamp on what\u2019s left of the violin and kick the door until the hinges buckle. Nothing is safe from my rage.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet out,\u201d screams the pawnbroker. His right hand is under the counter while his left holds his mobile to his ear. \u201cI\u2019m calling the cops. You\u2019d better pray they get here before I kill you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ryan drags me to the door. \u201cCome on, we need to go, Max, we need to go, now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t listen to him. Trash the place. Trash it good<\/em>.<\/p>\n

The cold, fresh air of the street takes the edge off my anger. One last kick at the pawnshop window is enough to calm my fury. Ryan grabs my shoulders.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, I think so,\u201d I say, puffing and panting from my exertion.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat goes around, comes around, eh?\u201d says Ryan, referring back to the kid whose money we\u2019d stolen in the park.<\/p>\n

\u201cI guess.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are okay, yeah?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, I\u2019m okay,\u201d I say \u201cI think I just need some time on my own.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cProbably the best thing for both of us. You take care. See you tomorrow.\u201d He heads off home.<\/p>\n

Gazing up at the sky, I wonder what\u2019s going to become of me. It seems that violin playing isn\u2019t to be my destiny. Instead, maybe this whole adventure is fate\u2019s way of telling me about the value of books. Maybe I\u2019m destined to be an author.<\/p>\n

Author? Ha! Music was your only chance. Music was your true destiny, it was your dream. Ryan killed your dream. Ryan\u2019s a dream-slayer.<\/em> Dream-slayers should die.<\/em><\/p>\n

Slapping my head hard to shut my voice up, I set off for home.<\/p>\n

You\u2019ll never have another dream, if that dream-slayer lives. The dream-slayer must die. Die!<\/em><\/p>\n

Without making a conscious decision, I stop, turn and burst into a sprint\u2026 after Ryan.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This was a short story which I wrote to support the charity associated with the\u00a0Chamber of Music\u00a0publication. I haven’t written many short stories but this is one of which I’m rather proud. What Goes Around, Comes Around Face pressed hard against the cold glass, I strain my eyes and squint to get a better look. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"parent":827,"menu_order":40,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-819","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/819","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=819"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/819\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":967,"href":"https:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/819\/revisions\/967"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/827"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.kenmageeauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=819"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}